


sometimes all it takes is a 48 hour biohazard quarantine

by OnyxSphinx



Series: newmann one-shots [138]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domesticity, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Softness, and then goes to see hermann IMMEDIATELY, in the second half anyway lol, newt gets free
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-26
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:49:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22412032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: When an oversight on the Precursors' part leaves Newt free of their influence for the first time in three years, he does the first thing that comes to his mind—books the first flight to Moyulan to see Hermann.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Series: newmann one-shots [138]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1286762
Comments: 9
Kudos: 78





	sometimes all it takes is a 48 hour biohazard quarantine

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "So I have the BEST prompt idea and I know you will make it amazing! Pre-Uprising Newt does manage to get free without anyone finding out what happened (maybe he has a medical emergency and is unable to get out of the hospital or is in biohazard quarantine until the influence has faded enough, whatever) and he doesn't bother calling before getting on a plane to Hermann. He just shows up after some time of no contact and is so glad to see Hermann who doesn't know what to think at first"

It’s almost amusing, actually, how it finally goes down.

Not some big event, like he expected. No; Newt dies slowly. Softly. Unaware, at first, that he is even _dying,_ because that’s how subtle the Precursors are; their influence brushed off as post-Drift trauma and his usual fuckup of a brain (him) and finally growing up (the rest of the world).

Well; _die_ probably isn’t accurate, since he’s still living and breathing, but this sure as hell isn’t _him_ —or at least, not _mostly._ Some of it _is_ him, the bitter, hollow, jealous part that feels small and inadequate and like a fuckup and thinks the world hates him and thinks he’s a joke and hates _everyone_ for it.

He’d like to think he wouldn’t be sitting here planning out how to destroy humanity and open Earth up to Precursor colonisers, but—well. Even if _he_ wouldn’t, they’re still using him to do it.

And then—during a rather low-risk, but hands-on lab experiment, it goes wrong. Or right, really, depending on how you look at it. Right for him, wrong for the Precursors, but really, that’s their own damn fault for, you know, ignoring proper safety protocol, but Newt’s not about to complain.

He _does_ get trapped in quarantine, though, alone, which is—which is _shit,_ frankly.

“What the _hell?_ ” is the first thing they demand, twisting his lips into an angry frown and baring his teeth, irritated by the sound of the alarm. They stride over to the doors—locked—and enter the keycode.

_Beep. Access denied._

“What the _hell?!_ ” they demand again, and try again, jabbing angrily— _painfully_ —at the keypad. It doesn’t yield.

It _doesn’t yield._ The door stays locked.

“How _long?_ ” they hiss, angrily, at the air, and Newt, locked away, grins smugly. He doesn’t know. He _doesn’t know_ and fuck, that’s the _best feeling_ he’s felt in a while. Twenty-four to forty-eight hours, though, probably; going off of his own experience.

It makes him _viciously_ happy that such a little thing, such a _stupid_ mistake on their part, is inconveniencing them so, and—hah. Hah.

Fuck you, he’d say, if he could _speak._

It takes them two hours to stop yelling angrily at the keypad, and that’s only because his vocal-chords give out. They still pound against the—reinforced, near-bullet-proof—glass doors, though. Pity they’re mirrored looking _out,_ so no one on the outside can see in. _Such_ a pity that all the other employees at Shao industries know better than to bother him if the lab doors are locked.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when his stomach growls loudly, twisting painfully. There isn’t anything edible in the lab, and though there’s water, it’s not great.

It’s somewhere around the eighteen-hour mark that it happens, though—his skin feeling, suddenly, too small on him, and there’s an _itch_ beneath it and his mind is fucking _buzzing_ and he starts to shiver. It’s not the cold, he’s pretty sure of that—he’s wearing _wool_ and the room is only slightly bellow room-temp, but he feels cold and clammy.

“R—ridiculous,” they mutter, giving in, finally, to the need to sit down, and Newt’s _very_ glad for that but he’s _not_ very happy about what’s going on because either he’s having a panic-attack or he’s having withdrawal and he’s like, pretty sure they’ve been taking his meds? Like, 70% sure—he thinks he managed to impress on them that he works better _with_ them, ‘cause he doesn’t crash and burn after two days.

But…

He’s still _feeling_ it, viscerally, in his spine and his ribs, in the marrow of his bones.

It reminds him, strangely enough, of the pain of being apart from Hermann physically, those first few days after the Drift—

Oh.

Well, that makes sense.

And it is _shit._ It is _so_ shit. Right now he’d like nothing more than for that door to fucking _unlock_ and let him back to the apartment so they can hook him back up to Alice so everything stops feeling so fucking _bad._ It hurts. It fucking _hurts,_ he just wants it to be _over._

He swallows thickly; painfully. They’ve stopped talking—he’s not even _glad_ about that, not at _this_ point, because as much as he usually hates hearing his own voice these days he thinks he’s literally going to fucking _die_ and he doesn’t even _want_ that now.

He doesn’t _want_ —

He just—

“Fuck,” he whispers hoarsely, as a wave of pain wracks his frame—already weak from lack of sleep and lack of food, and he—god. God, fuck, _fuck._ Just let it be _over._ He’d do _anything_ for it to be over.

The pain stays.

He’s not sure how long.

He just knows that it’s bad enough that he passes out at some point, finally; blessedly, and when he wakes up, his cheek is pressed against the cold tile of the floor and his stomach feels like it’s turned into a black hole and he—

And his _mind is empty._

His mind is empty because _he_ isn’t there, anymore, because _he_ just raised his head off the ground and wiped the drool off his cheek and—and _his_ legs tremble and he’s still in pain but he can— _he_ can feel it, because it’s _his_ pain, right now, all his.

When he tries the lock, the door opens.

He takes a tentative step outside; fists clenching, tightly enough that his nails sting the palms, at his sides.

He takes another.

There’s no resistance.

He nearly cries.

No; he _does_ cry.

“Geiszler,” comes the sharp tone of Doctor Shao, looking less-than-pleased. “What—?”

“I’m quitting,” Newt says, and then, again, with wonder: “I’m _quitting._ ”

Her lips tighten into a thin line and Newt can see it; see her weighing her dislike of him over the fact that he’s _Newt Geiszler,_ and he can see the moment that the dislike wins, and he’s fucking— _overjoyed,_ frankly. She gives a short nod. “Goodbye,” she says, simply, and brushes past him without further comment.

He barely notices his surroundings; takes a few minutes at his desk to grab a pen and book a ticket to Moyulan and then he’s half-stumbling out of the building to flag a taxi.

His stomach growls again, but this time, the ache is almost comforting; anyway, he doesn’t think he _could_ eat right now, if he tried.

* * *

It’s raining when he gets there. He hasn’t brought an umbrella, and barely manages to make it inside the airport from the tarmac without getting soaked. He doesn’t stop at the café to buy a sandwich, or at the gift-shop, and he doesn’t buy an umbrella.

There’s a bus, though, that runs from the airport to the city-centre and Newt takes that instead of a taxi, and then immediately regrets it because he’s surrounded on all sides by _people_ and he can't—he can’t fucking _breathe_ and—

And—

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Focuses on the pound of the rain against the windows, lets it drown out everything.

The automated voice announces they’ve reached the city-centre. He rises. Takes a step.

Sprints off the bus.

He can _feel_ it. He can feel _Hermann._ He’s finally close enough to.

He runs.

His leg aches, and his muscles burn, and he can barely see through his glasses, the water soaking into his skin within seconds, his clothes clinging to him, but he runs. He runs.

And then he’s here, and coming to a halt, panting, and Hermann is in this building, he can _feel_ it, and he barely makes it up the flight of stairs and with shaking fingers he raises his hand and knocks on the door.

One.

Two.

Three.

He trembles; cold and hollow and more fucking _alive_ than he’s been in three years.

There’s the sound of footsteps, and then the bolt slides, and the door opens to Hermann.

Newt drinks the sight of him in like a dying man; like he can solve all of his problems just by looking at him, in his ill-fitting clothing and his stupid haircut and his weird face and his too-wide lips and his—his _everything_ and god, god. Newt wants to reach out and touch him but he’s frozen; can’t even breathe, barely; because he is not—he isn’t allowed this, _can’t_ be allowed this, and—

“Newton?” Hermann asks, voice low; confused; _worried,_ maybe, even, and his lips purse and his brow furrows and—

And Newt _can’t_ do it; not anymore, not like this, and he launches himself, nearly, at Hermann, arms wrapping around the other and he sobs, brokenly, “ _Hermann,_ ” just the once, the two syllables, but he feels like he’s laid himself bare. He can’t say anymore.

“What are you doing here?” Hermann asks; not _soft,_ no; it’s too… _guarded_ for that and Newt doesn’t blame him, really.

“Came to see you,” he says, “I—I.” And then he stops because how the _fuck_ does he explain this, all this, to someone who doesn’t _know,_ who doesn't—

“Breathe,” Hermann says, sharply, and his hand goes up to rub circles on Newt’s back and this is. This is almost too much, and Newt realises he’s dripping onto Hermann’s carpet.

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I just—it’s been—” his words catch in his throat again, so all he says is, “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t expect you,” Hermann says.

“I know. I’m sorry,” Newt says, again. “I—for—everything. Leaving. I want to—to make it right—”

“Not now,” Hermann says; firmly. “You’re shivering against me, and you look like you haven’t eaten or slept in days. As soon as that’s taken care of, we’ll talk.”

Newt swallows; breathes a deep breath. “Okay,” he says, quietly. “I—thank you. Thank you, Hermann.”

They stand for a few more minutes; and it’s the nicest thing Newt has felt in a long time, and then Hermann _tsk_ s and says, “Come with me, I’ll draw you a warm bath,” and everything’s still kind of awful and they’re going to need to talk about this, sooner rather than later, but right now, Hermann’s holding his hand gently, as if afraid he’ll run, but he keeps murmuring _I love you_ and things are fucked up but.

But they’re kind of okay. They _will_ be okay. Not now, but. They will be.

* * *

The water is hot; or at least it feels like it, when Newt sticks his hand in it. “You’re soaked to the bone,” Hermann murmurs, quietly, and Newt’s pretty sure he _didn’t_ say that out loud, but he’s so _fucking tired_ and his head is pounding and his chest is heavy when he breathes.

Hermann tugs at his shirt; the wet cloth making a noise a bit like laminated paper as it peels away from his skin. “You’re soaked,” he says, again. “And exhausted. Let me help you, Newton.”

His hand hovers, there, for a moment, as Newt remains silent; and then, he says, slowly, “Okay,” and Hermann gently, _gently_ unbuttons the shirt and helps him out of it and into the tub.

The water’s hot, and he shivers violently and lets out a wet cough, and Hermann’s lips turn down. “You’re sick,” he says, and Newt laughs, painfully; because it’s _true_ , if you look at it that way. He’s sick. He’s _been_ sick. God, he’s sick and he’s so fucking tired.

“Yeah,” he says, weakly, and his eyes slip shut. He doesn’t have the energy to sit up properly, so he lets himself slide down so his knees and his head are the only bits sticking up.

There’s the sound of retreating footsteps, and Newt sighs. That’s fine. He doesn’t _really_ expect… _anything_ , given he just showed up to Hermann’s place unannounced after three years of not talking at all. The bath is nice, though.

Glass clinks as it hits a hard surface. “I found orange juice,” Hermann says, awkwardly. “I know you don’t like it, but you look like you need… _something_. Er.”

Newt opens his eyes; finds Hermann sitting on the closed toilet lid, lanky limbs doing their best to fit in the small space of the bathroom, and there’s a half-glass of orange juice on the wide rim of the bathtub. Hermann’s hands are clasped in his lap, and he’s worrying his lip. “Thanks,” Newt says, finally, when he finds his voice again, and takes it.

Hermann watches him for a moment, and then realises Newt _knows_ he’s watching him, and flicks his gaze quickly to stare at the wall, ears going slightly red. “Thanks,” Newt says, again. “For, um. The juice.” And then he sets the glass on the floor, water dripping and he feels bad, a bit, but Hermann doesn’t look like he really _cares_.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” he says, and picks up a bottle of shampoo and uncaps it, about to squeeze it, and then freezes, realising what he’s about to do. “Er—I mean—”

Newt shakes his head. “No, it’s…it’s fine,” he says, and his shoulders go slack.

The other leans over, tipping Newt’s head gently back to wet his hair, and then begins rubbing the shampoo through his hair. “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he says, and the words aren’t accusatory.

Newt swallows. “I quit Shao Industries,” he says.

“Ah,” Hermann says, and Newt gets the impression that he’s not _too_ surprised by it, and that, at least, is kind of reassuring.

 _Got un-possessed for the first time in three years, too_ , Newt doesn’t add, because he doesn’t think Hermann deserves to have it dropped on him like that, now. Instead, he says, “Thanks for letting me in. I…wasn’t sure you’d be home.” _Or open the door_ , he doesn’t add, _if you can feel me like I can feel you_.

“I’m glad I did,” Hermann says, firmly. “I’m going to go—” Newt’s eyes widen, and he tenses, and Hermann must catch sight of it, because he pitches his tone softer, continues, “to go make you something more substantial to eat, and get you a towel and a change of clothes, alright? I’ll…I’ll just be in the other room. Is that alright?”

“I—y—yeah,” Newt says, after a moment. “Thanks.”

The water’s cooled—or he’s gotten warmer—by the time Hermann gets back, a towel and a change of clothes. He helps Newt clamber out of the tub and wraps him in the towel, large and fluffy, that smells like clean detergent, and the clothes smell like the same cool cucumber of Hermann’s body-wash.

Tears sting at his eyes, and he sniffles, pressure pressing behind his eyes. This is too—too—he scrubs at his eyes quickly. “Uh, you said something about food?” he asks, and his voice is cracking, but Hermann lets it slide.

He nods. “Come lay down—I can put it on a tray. You ought to rest.”

“‘kay,” Newt says, and then, suddenly, Hermann’s arms are around him and he’d ask _why_ , but, god, he _understands_ , can feel how much Hermann misses him.

Hermann leads him to the bedroom; tucks him under the warm, clean covers and leaves for a few moments, returning with a tray. There’s a bowl of rice and one of soup and some yoghurt and bread, and he sets it on Newt’s lap and then, without prompting, as if he can hear Newt’s thoughts—maybe he can?—, he gets in bed with Newt, pressing, warm, against him.

“Thank you,” Newt says, quietly, and takes one of Hermann’s hands in his.

They’re going to have to talk about everything soon, he knows, but right now, he’s sick, and Hermann’s taking care of him, and he’s just going to try and live in the moment.

Hermann smiles and squeezes his hand, thumb rubbing against the skin. “Of course,” he says, simply.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
